Always take the weather with you
Basheer Bagh
I woke up to the sound of chirping birds ..chirping birds that were rudely interrupted by the sound of shopkeepers rolling up store shutters in the street below our fourth floor apartment.
UGH!
Light golden sunlight filtered through the blinds of my bedroom window. I woke up with the enthusiasm of an earthworm. Sluggish and uninvested. This was not my first morning in the new apartment and I still expected to see very different things after I’d wake up and hoped to heave a sigh of relief about how it was all just a dream.
The House was white walled, French windowed and had ‘great cross ventilation’ or so I’d hear my dad say several times in a day. Alas, the view wasn’t much to speak of...it was about three years ago that we moved here. Trading old for new: A lovely little garden and the warmth of an old family home for the so-called joys of apartment living that I could not quite relate to as much as my parents. Only a year in, things had changed in many undesirable ways. For one, the quiet road leading to our apartment had turned into a busy commercial street that sold everything but the kitchen sink and got especially noisy in the evenings. And there were skeletons of ugly new buildings on the rise that threatened the very things we considered special: The view of the Hussain Sagar Lake, the giant neighbourhood trees. Even that special cross ventilation!
Views are important to me as you can probably tell by now.
“How Insensitive” I thought to myself. “Didn’t they know there was a family over a block away that might want to wake up to and come home to that very view they were so shamelessly obstructing?!” And sure enough, it wasn’t long before the view of that shimmering lake and its prized guest the Gigantic Buddha statue both disappeared out of sight for good. If you grew up in Hyderabad, you’d know the tragic story of the slippery Monolithic statue that sailed offshore atop a barge along with 10 people to meet its pedestal in the middle of the lake but never made it. For two years It lay at the bottom of the lake amongst other rotting paraphernalia till one day, courtesy the efforts of a new establishment, it emerged. A lesser version of itself: Almost telling its sad tale in its decayed state. But several months and a few whitewashes later it now stood proudly at the centre of the lake with a quiet confidence only survivors of tragedy can boast of.
The lake itself was a special place. Around it now runs the famous Necklace Road. But back then, there was but one road that ran through “Tank Bund” – An infamous little bridge that had infact cracked a couple of times, causing much distress to the many that lived below it. The road that ran through it, connected the twin cities – Hyderabad (erstwhile princely state) & Secunderabad (erstwhile British headquarters and cantonment area)
One evening, sensing my apathy towards the new place, dad randomly suggested we visit the bund for an early morning walk before school. And so, we did. I was woken up bright and early at 5 am and after putting on our most supportive, walk-worthy footwear, headed out for Hussain Sagar Lake. What hadn’t dawned on me all the while I had been admiring this view, was how seemingly close it appeared; And how that wasn’t the case. For it took about 20 minutes along a road with some steep slopes and climbs, crossing a couple of wide empty roads to finally arrive at our destination. But how well worth the effort it was. The massive expanse of the lake, it’s waves and permanent resident (the buddha) all slightly gilded by the rising sun’s golden glow. The cool breeze and the quiet, only slightly interrupted by the happy chirping of both the birds and I! Being young and tiny can do that to one. It often makes things, places, & moments seem bigger and better. Not just in size, but in promise too. This would do just fine!
Dad and I agreed that we could perhaps save on time and energy by getting here on his two-wheeler. This eventually became a daily ritual. During the week we would use the pavement for our walks but on weekends, the road was closed to traffic. And what was usually a throughfare would transform into a festival of sorts. Kids, grown-ups, pets, the elderly all roamed the street freely for their morning walks. Skaters swiftly zoomed and spun in between colourful plastic cones within their rope-sealed confines, showing off all sorts of cool tricks. Ice-cream carts, tender coconut sellers, a bunch of plastic toy vendors (bubbles, funny water bird whistles, and a cool graduating flute of sorts…oh how I wanted that flute!) and lots of street food! My dad , a pediatrician by profession, would often warn me of the perils of consuming any of the above but on occasion, indulge me in a candy floss “made on the spot” .If he was feeling particularly brave, I’d get a coal roasted corn on the cob (Bhutta) – freshly cut lemon wedges dipped in a mix of chilly and salt rubbed across it’s surface. Yummy!
It was our time to catch up with each other’s daily exploits, take in the fresh air blowing across the lake; All the while feeling blessed to live a stone’s throw away from this fantastical world of fun. And it didn’t end here. We found that exploring the world early in the morning before everyone else had its perks! The sight of empty streets somehow felt like having the keys to a city that was all ours.
Soon we had our favourite hang outs. Public Gardens with its rolling manicured greens, exotic flora and fauna, mini lakes, traffic free avenues and a train track passing through it (A particularly attractive feature to me, lover of trains and everything to do with them) , even a small natural history museum of its own! Then there was Indira Park, again a natural haven, where one came to soak in nature and its delights.
“You have to find your places. Make the view whatever you want it to be” Dad would always tell us. Right after which he just had to burst into song …” Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you”
This was advice I would find very useful, years later. Like the time I would take a cycle rickshaw every evening after college to a quaint local market to buy dahi (yogurt) for the flat I shared with 6 other girls at a dreary hostel in Delhi’s Patparganj. Or the time I found myself alone in paris for the first time at a shady hotel booked for me by my office; I’d dump my things after work and walk to the Trocadero square to watch the Eiffel Tower Sparkle as I chowed down on a lemon sugar crepe. Or, when I moved from my first beloved rented ground floor home as a parent with my two babies (Nea, Our pup Ollie and Anouk).
Nea was 3 and I found her struggling with pretty much the same thing. Recalibrating her comfort zone.
I began to take her around the new colony. Drawing her attention to things of interest and consistency in her new environment. Like the park she played at where if you looked just under a certain branch of the 'Khapas' tree, we could see straight into her window and the colourful fish mobile in her room. Or, ridiculous as it may sound, the living room of the house across the street. With large bay windows like ours. Always open and bright, whoever lived there seemed to watch old cartoons every evening. Little did he know a three-year-old across the road was having her egg rolls and watching them too.
This became a subconscious survival skill. To observe and curate a list of things we love in new environments to help us settle in and love life a little better, even if not completely. Changing our views. Both literally and metaphorically speaking.
Always Taking the weather with us.